


Paving Slabs on the Road to Hell

by raisedbymoogles



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's All Hojo's (Compilation of FFVII) Fault, Pre-Canon, abuse is complicated, canon is a wibbly wobbly thing, nothing graphic but very strongly hinted, playing a little fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:15:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27014125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raisedbymoogles/pseuds/raisedbymoogles
Summary: Five times Hojo and Sephiroth actually got along.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 22





	Paving Slabs on the Road to Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I was mostly just trying to work out some stuff about Hojo and Sephiroth's relationship for On Broken Wings aaaand this happened. *weeps* You don't need to read that monster to understand this one, though, so I'm leaving it as a standalone.

_Age 7_

“Mister Hojo, thank you for coming.”

“It’s ‘Professor,’ if you don’t mind, and skip the pleasantries. I’m too busy for this nonsense as it is.”

Professor Hojo was already in a foul mood, and once again it was all S’s fault. The boy scrunched up in the hard plastic chair the principal and the teacher had banished him to and did his best to breathe _silently,_ banishing the treacherous sting at the corners of his eyes through effort of will alone. Crying was _forbidden,_ especially around others: the Professor had his back to S, but Principal Danforth, sitting behind his desk, did not.

“Professor, then.” Principal Danforth had a round, pleasant face and a round, pleasant manner, which he deployed to enforce his will in very different ways to Hojo’s snapped orders and cold rages. “As you know, Midgar Sunshine Elementary School is a place where we teach the future leaders of the world,” he said, which was the same way he’d begun his speech at Assembly on S’s very first day of school. “Children of ambassadors, executives, and royalty mingle with the exceptionally gifted. Our core principles of harmony and excellence have turned out many fine students who go on to be high achievers in their fields.”

“If I wanted your sales pitch I’d read your brochure,” Hojo rapped out. “Do get to the point.”

The principal took a breath of exaggerated patience. “The point is,” he gently lectured, “that unfortunately, Sephiroth’s behavior today did not reflect the values of Midgar Sunshine Elementary. He has failed to show respect for his teacher’s authority or his classmates’ time, and this is a disruption to the harmony we value so highly. I know Sephiroth’s test scores mark him out as highly intelligent.” And now Principal Danforth’s gaze moved to S, so very patient, so very reasonable. “But intelligence alone does not give him the right to talk back to his teacher and cause a scene. We must harness that bright young mind of his properly if he is to achieve his full potential for excellence.”

S wanted to shrivel down to the size of a bug. He thought he might actually succeed when Professor Hojo turned to pin Sephiroth with his gaze, eyes poison-harsh behind the glint of his glasses. “Well, S?” he demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Somehow, perhaps only due to the familiarity of the Professor’s irritation, S found his little spark of rebellion. “I can _so_ write in Wutaian. And Wutai’s capital _isn’t_ called Kokomo.”

Principal Danforth sighed, shaking his head. “As you see, Mister - pardon me, Professor Hojo. This is exactly the attitude that-”

“-that is _absolutely correct_!”

S was treated to the sight of Principal Danforth’s round jaw dropping. “I can’t believe you called me away from a very important experiment for such nonsense,” Hojo went on, gesticulating sharply in the air, and Principal Danforth leaned back further and further as if he was afraid those hands would cut. “I know herding children around all day doesn’t call for any great intellect, but even a _first-grade teacher_ ought to know how to crack open a damned _book._ The capital of Wutai is Edo, you imbecile, and Sephiroth knows how to write it in kana _and_ kanji!”

S dared to peek up at the Professor again. The man was as enraged as he ever got, red-faced and snapping and _loud,_ and for the first time S could remember he was angry _on S’s behalf._ It was awe-inspiring.

Principal Danforth was never going to regain control of the situation, but he tried anyway. “Even if it is, he shouldn’t try to correct-”

“‘Even if,’” Hojo repeated scornfully.

“-correct the teacher in front of the class,” Principal Danforth finished weakly. “It undermines the teacher’s authority-”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize what sort of place this was,” Hojo mocked. “I thought children came here to _learn_ things. Come on, boy, we’re leaving.”

“Ah, Professor, the school day isn’t over-” Principal Danforth tried, but Hojo was already seizing S’s hand and pulling him to his feet.

“You can take him off your roster, effective immediately!” Hojo barked, towing S out the door so fast that he had to trot to keep up. “Honestly, what a waste of time,” Hojo continued ranting as they whisked past the reception desk. “ _Kokomo,_ my foot! Never mind, boy, I’ll talk the President into shelling out for a private tutor, the gods know he can afford it. And you can bet I’ll be vetting all candidates myself!”

None of that made much sense to S, but he was still processing what had happened in the principal’s office anyway. As they stepped outside and were instantly blanketed in Midgar’s everpresent humid haze, S ventured, “So... I can talk back to grownups as long as I’m right?”

“Hn?” Hojo, stopped mid-rant, blinked at S as he mentally rewound. “Oh. Well - actually, _yes,_ ” he said fiercely. “But you had better be prepared to prove it, if you feel that strongly about it. And don’t be surprised if someone ends up proving you wrong instead. You’re still a child, you don’t know anything yet.”

“Yet,” S repeated happily, and let Hojo get them moving again. “...Even you, Professor?” he pressed further.

Hojo barked a laugh. “My boy, if you ever prove _me_ wrong, I’ll - I’ll give you whatever you want.”

* * *

_Age 12_

_“Where is the Promised Land?”_

What?

The question was still spinning in his head. President Shinra had shown him a world map and intoned the question as though it meant _everything,_ and S could still feel the way his stomach had dropped when he could do no more than grope silently for an answer. The President had stared him down for a horribly long moment, cigar working from one side of his mouth to the other, and then turned to Hojo and said _after all that funding I expected results._

Hojo had frowned, but he hadn’t argued. President Shinra was the only person in the world Hojo didn’t argue with.

S had been conducted back down to the labs after that, but Hojo hadn’t gone with him, and he hadn’t come back down after S’s usual checkup and blood draw. S was banished from the medical room with orders to _go train,_ the tech’s tense snap inviting no impertinent asking for further clarification. _Choice_ , a rare luxury, was his until further notice, so he made use of it, drilling himself in combat routines and even trying to make up some of his own based on his VR scenarios. It was painfully taxing, but at least it wasn’t as deathly boring as hours on the treadmill.

Training would wear out his body, eventually, but a quiet mind refused to emerge, so much so that he began to long for the enforced peace of a mako chamber... but that only happened under Hojo’s supervision, and the techs were leaving him alone, avoiding even looking at him as he took out his frustration on a series of sandbags and training dummies. As they worked, he trained. As they left, he trained. The lights went out, and still he trained.

He trained until his legs gave out, and then sat on a mat in the dark and listened to his muscles throbbing. He distantly heard the sound of the lab’s main security door open and close, and then the familiar harsh scrape of Hojo’s irritated voice. “Where _is_ everybody?”

“Gone, Professor,” S called - _croaked,_ more like, but he refused to acknowledge the rawness in his throat. “It’s after seven.”

“What?” An incredulous pause, during which time Hojo presumably checked his watch. “Bah! What ever happened to work ethic? Where are you, S?”

“Training room 1, sir.”

He expected to be commanded to report to one of the sterile labs, but instead the Professor came to him, kicking a medicine ball out of his way as he went. “What have you done to yourself this time, boy,” he grumbled, kneeling beside his charge.

“I was _training,_ ” S protested, but he stayed limp and compliant as Hojo seized his wrist, two fingers pressing into his pulse point. From his vantage point he could just see Hojo’s lips move silently as he counted heartbeats, eyes on his watch.

“You’re fine,” he judged at last. “At least tell me those useless wastes of lab space fed you before they left.” As if on cue, S’s stomach growled. “Unbelievable.” He stood and stalked away, the hem of his labcoat sweeping over S’s face; when he didn’t return or issue orders otherwise, Sephiroth forced his aching limbs to obey him and staggered out to find the Professor.

He found the Professor in the break room with his head in the refrigerator, grousing to himself as he rummaged among the left-behind remains of lunches and the odd petri dish. He could feel the waft of cold from the fridge door, smell the vile mix of leftovers and old rot. All familiar sensations - this was his home, he knew no other. What would this place be without him? What would _he_ be without Hojo and the lab techs and sterile rooms and locked doors and the chill embrace of mako?

“Am I going to be decommissioned?” he asked.

“Hm?” Hojo didn’t look up. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Because I failed,” S clarified. “I thought the President might pull my funding.”

“Hah!” Hojo straightened, shut the fridge, moved onto the next - the one with the sign reading ‘Specimens Only’ in big red letters, not that it stopped Jerry the assistant phlebotomist from putting his lunch in there every day. “He’s just blowing hot air. The scientific advancements I’ve achieved from my work with you already more than pays for your upkeep and he knows it.” S stayed silent, stymied; Hojo glanced at him over his shoulder, presumably to see why he was getting no audible response, sighed and shut the fridge. “The President has his... goals,” the Professor said. “And I have mine. The two of us have a mutually beneficial relationship in pursuit of those goals but they’re not _quite_ aligned. So yes, he’s disappointed, but the only person you need to worry about _failing_ is me.”

“Yes, sir,” S said on a relieved sigh.

“Though if you tell anyone I said that I’ll make sure you regret it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The Professor gestured him to a hard plastic chair in front of a hard plastic table, and S gratefully went. “Now, since some blasted idiot apparently forgot to put some of your rations in the fridge to thaw, we’ll have to cheat on your diet a bit. Boys like pizza, don’t they?”

“I’ve never had pizza,” S admitted.

“Have you not?” Hojo stared into space over S’s head a moment, as if trying to decide whose fault that was. “Well, never mind, you’re having it now. Now where’s that menu...”

S rested his head in his folded arms, letting himself feel his hunger and fatigue now that he knew he wasn’t going anywhere, that Hojo’s crankly bustling would remain a constant in the world. “Why were you gone so long, then?” he asked, not really expecting more than a snapped reprimand for the answer. “If it wasn’t about my funding.”

Uncharacteristically, Hojo didn’t snap. He turned with a menu to the local pizza place in his hand, gazing over it, and of all things he _smiled._ “We were creating the future.”

* * *

_Age 18_

Sephiroth’s Promised Land was the battlefields of Wutai. He was not glad to be back in Midgar.

Admittedly, it did have its perks: a private suite in Shinra Tower with a view of the city spreading out below, a mark of privilege befitting his new rank of General. The President had kept his promise after all - and Sephiroth had kept up his end of the bargain, nearly doubling Shinra’s held territory by the beginning of Wutai’s storm season. It would, if nothing else, be a far more pleasant four months at Headquarters than last year.

Sephiroth busied himself unpacking his duffel, but he wasn’t so distracted that he couldn’t pick up on familiar footsteps coming up the hallway. He didn’t alert to it until the steps paused just outside his door, and felt his shoulders tense despite himself, anticipating another of the Professor’s famous tantrums. Instead he heard the unmistakable _beep... click_ of his door being unlocked.

 _Of course, he has a keycard to his specimen’s enclosure._ Sephiroth wasn’t sure whether he was resentful that his dreams of having a locked door between himself and the Professor had been shattered or relieved that he didn’t have to make the choice to unlock the door himself. He straightened, steeling himself for the shouting to begin.

“Ah, the conquering General returns!” 

Hojo wasn’t so much shouting as _crowing_ , sweeping into the room with his labcoat floating behind him dramatically. “I’ve received excellent reports about your performance this year,” he announced without preamble. “I’m amazed they didn’t try harder to keep you on the front lines.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Sephiroth answered cautiously, and chose not to explain that he wasn’t _needed_ on the front lines - no armies moved during storm season, when all of Wutai was churned to mud and the lightning hammered the land like a god’s wrath. The soldiers left behind in Wutai were bookmarks in a story on pause. “Am I required in the labs?” he asked instead.

“Hm?” Hojo paused midway through poking through Sephiroth’s half-empty duffel. “Not yet. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow, I don’t have a thing set up.”

“Tomorrow morning, then?”

“That will be fine.”

“Understood.”

Sephiroth stepped back, folding his arms, posture military-perfect. Waiting. _Hinting,_ his shoulders tight with suppressed impatience and nerves. Hojo pulled out a bundle - Wutaian smoked tea, wrapped in a towel to protect it - sniffed at it, made a face, and set it aside. “Acceptable,” he judged, in a tone of voice that added _barely._ “You’ve been adhering to your dietary restrictions, then?”

“Yes, Professor.” The trick to lying to the Professor was to lie blandly, and Sephiroth had mastered it early.

“Not been cavorting with the locals?”

“No, Professor.” That, at least, had the advantage of not being a lie, so of course that was the one that got him a suspicious squint. “The locals think I’m a demon,” he pointed out impatiently. “They’re hardly going to proposition me.”

“Hmph. Camp followers...” Hojo waved the issue aside. “Well, whatever. I’ll be wanting a full bloodwork panel on you either way, so don’t eat anything before you come to the lab.”

Sephiroth managed to hide an anticipatory wince. “Yes, Professor.” He’d be drained dry by the time the Professor was done with him, but at least he wouldn’t be stuck with ration bars for breakfast after. If he was lucky, he might even get away with a nap. In his _new private quarters._

...surely, Hojo would be too busy processing his bloodwork to barge in on him again, at least for a while.

Hojo found nothing more interesting in Sephiroth’s baggage, it seemed; he let the bag drop back onto the table, careless, already forgotten. “What, no souvenirs?” he demanded, and Sephiroth blinked. “I’m teasing you, boy. Grow a sense of humor.”

“In a petri dish?” Sephiroth asked, and the Professor barked a laugh that shocked them both.

“Welcome home, Sephiroth,” Hojo said once he’d recovered, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Remember, first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, Professor,” Sephiroth answered, all in a daze. _He called me by my name._ And he hadn’t shouted or threatened or anything. Where, he wondered as he watched the Professor sweep out of his quarters with the same self-assurance with which he’d swept _in_ , was this uncharacteristic good humor coming from? The last few years he’d been in Midgar on leave Hojo had been downright unbearable with foul temper- 

_...that_ must have been it. Three years ago there had been some sort of specimen escape while Sephiroth was in Wutai; he didn’t know the details, but the specimen-or-specimens must have been very valuable, because Hojo had been in the President’s bad books ever since. Sephiroth’s continued success in Wutai must have finally been sufficient to mend the rift between the President and the Professor.

He was still contemplating that when Hojo stuck his head back in through the open doorway, apparently not satisfied with the last word he already had. “And I’ll be wanting that hair cut, boy!” he ordered.

Still flying high with victory, Sephiroth answered back, “You’ll have to take it up with the PR department. _They_ think my hair is driving up enlistment numbers.”

“Bah!” Hojo swatted the air at him, making it clear what he thought of the PR department, but he was clearly feeling too magnanimous himself to argue any further and left Sephiroth in peace once more.

* * *

_Age 25_

“Can’t sleep either, my boy?”

Sephiroth didn’t startle, but it was a near thing. He was only ever fully unaware of his surroundings in a full VR headset, or in a mako tank, but the training hologram - shaped like a Wutaian warrior, though its programmed fighting style was decidedly Eastern - had absorbed the bulk of his attention and he’d somehow missed Hojo’s approach. _Sloppy,_ he berated himself, either that or he’d grown comfortable enough with Hojo to classify him as background noise. Neither was a comfortable thought.

“Someday someone’s going to mistake you for a monster if you keep sneaking up on them,” he said, because he really didn’t want to admit he _was_ suffering from insomnia the night before an away mission, like a teenaged recruit. “It’ll be difficult to argue for more funding for the Science Department without a head.”

“Your concern is touching.” Hojo leaned against the safety railing, blatantly taking the role of observer or judge; Sephiroth took the hint and returned his attention to the training hologram, who’d apparently grown impatient waiting for him to respond and was winding up for a simulated Limit Break strike. For a moment the world narrowed down to the dance of strike and counter, so fast that no thoughts could find a moment to edge in, and so even Hojo was forgotten.

Only for a moment, though - when the hologram conceded defeat and flickered out of existence, Hojo was still there, still watching him. Sephiroth went for his towel, trying to ignore the man and hope he’d move on. “So,” Hojo said, because of course Sephiroth couldn’t be that lucky. “Nibelheim, is it?”

Sephiroth mopped the sweat off his face and took a swallow from his water bottle before answering. It didn’t surprise him that Hojo knew of his assignments - he half suspected the man of choosing Sephiroth’s destinations himself, or at least approving them before they were officially signed off by Heidegger - but he rarely asked after them, and even then it was usually only to demand samples from this or that monster. It was usually no trouble to comply.

“Nibelheim,” Sephiroth confirmed - no point in denying it. “Why, do you know the place?”

He didn’t think he’d get anything so helpful as a terrain report or similar, but even he didn’t know what to expect when Hojo tilted his head up, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth. “I worked there for a little while, that’s all.” While Sephiroth was still processing that, the Professor added, “With Gast.”

_Professor Gast...!_

Professor Gast, the originator of the Jenova Project - the man responsible for who and _what_ Sephiroth was. Professor Gast, the first person - and the last, for a while - to show Sephiroth kindness. Professor Gast, who’d vanished suddenly when Sephiroth was small, leaving a horrible blank void of unanswered questions - and Hojo, who’d been all too eager to fill the shoes of a man who could never be replaced.

He’d never heard Hojo speak Gast’s name, and the one time Sephiroth had dared, the storm that had fallen upon him had been terrible indeed. Even now a child’s terror stilled his tongue. What had brought this on, now of all times? Why, after two decades of displays of fury at even the slightest reminder of the other man’s existence, did Hojo smile as if remembering a long-lost friend?

 _Had_ they been friends, once?

It occurred to Sephiroth that he _could_ ask, now. He wasn’t a child anymore, nor was Hojo the cruel and capricious god his childhood self had believed him to be. Was it so wrong to want to fill the gaps in his own history, to know where, in the vast network of humanity, he _fit_? He shaped the questions in his mind, trying to picture himself posing them to Hojo the way he spun up battle tactics in his head.

_What happened to Professor Gast? What was my mother like? Why have I always been so different - from the other children, from even other SOLDIERs?_

_Are you really my father, and if so, why did I have to hear it by eavesdropping rather than from you directly?_

Hojo shook his head abruptly, and just like that, Sephiroth knew he’d missed his chance. “Ah, listen to me,” the Professor declared. “Getting soft over the past! I must be turning into an old man.” Sephiroth blinked, groping for how to respond to that, and Hojo openly laughed at his expression. “Well, when you get back, you’ll have to tell me if the mansion we used is still standing. Or if they’ve boarded up the secret passage,” he added thoughtfully.

“Secret passage?”

“Oh, yes. Second floor, disguised as a stone wall - though the bit you press to open the door was never well hidden. I’m sure you can’t miss it.” Hojo actually _chuckled_ , his eyes misted with memory behind the hard shine of his glasses. “What can I say? We were young. And terribly impressed with ourselves.”

 _As if you’re not now?_ Sephiroth thought, watching the man smile. “I’ll look for it.”

“Do that. But don’t expect to find much - it was a long time ago. I’m sure the locals have picked the place clean by now.” Hojo straightened from the railing, stretched, yawned. “Well, then, I’m for bed. Good night, boy.”

“Good night, Professor,” Sephiroth echoed dutifully. His head was whirling with everything still left unsaid - if he’d found sleep difficult before, it would be _impossible_ now. He’d just have to sleep on the airship. If Zack would let him.

He was just about to call up another training hologram when Hojo made a surprised noise and paused mid-shuffle, hands in his pockets. “Well - speak of the devil,” he said, pulling out his hand, and something glinted between his fingers. “I’d forgotten I still had that.”

“What is it?” Sephiroth couldn’t help but ask.

Hojo held it up, turning it so Sephiroth could see it: it was a ring, a plain metal band more utilitarian than decorative. “It’s a protective accessory,” the Professor explained, “a peace ring. There were quite a few monsters in the Nibel range that could induce temporary mood destabilization, so it was necessary for us all to have these.”

His hand flicked - Sephiroth reached out, and caught the ring neatly. Upon opening his palm he saw the glint of inlaid materia chips on the inside of the band, where they would come in contact with the wearer’s skin, and felt the telltale whisper of magic. Not that Hojo tolerated such an imprecise and unscientific word.

“Unless the monsters have changed in the area,” Hojo said while Sephiroth was still examining it, “you’ll need that more than I do.”

Dumbfounded - _did I just receive a gift? From Hojo?_ \- Sephiroth closed his hand around the ring again and nodded. Hojo chuckled and left him with one last handwave of dismissal, and Sephiroth marveled at how, even after a lifetime of brutal familiarity, the Professor still managed to surprise him. Perhaps old age _was_ softening the man, after all.

_I suppose I will seek out that mansion of his. And after I return... maybe I will ask him my questions._

* * *

_Hidden underneath a black glove, the cursed ring did what it was meant to do._

* * *

_5 years dead_

It had already been a rather... _exciting_ day at Shinra Headquarters, but with the terrorists captured along with the Ancient, things appeared to be settling down. _Appeared..._ but Professor Hojo wasn’t the slightest bit lulled. There was something in the air. Something none but him could sense.

_Fools._

He’d thought it was that one with the terrorists at first - the young man with the heavy sword and the Mako shine to his eyes, dressed in First Class fatigues though if he was a SOLDIER Hojo was a moogle’s uncle. But he’d been corralled as easily as the others, and Hojo would be reading the man’s story in his entrails soon enough. And yet the sense of - what was that? Anticipation? Unease? - in the air still lingered.

He understood when he entered the labs again and nearly tripped over the broken body of his assistant.

He’d been laid open from shoulder to waist, the cut straight and perfect as if a god had reached down with a giant scalpel. Hojo’s eyes rose, from the corpse along the trail of blood to the tank that had housed what had remained of Jenova after - _whatever_ had happened in Nibelheim. There had been frustratingly few witnesses.

The trail of blood ended at a pair of black leather boots, and Hojo abruptly had reason to hope that he would find out what happened that day after all.

Sephiroth looked much as Hojo remembered him: black leather coat, long sword, _ridiculous_ long hair and all. He didn’t appear to notice Hojo, standing calmly before the shattered containment tank, cradling the headless corpse of his Mother in his free arm. Hojo must have made a sound, seeing that - Sephiroth lifted his head, and inhuman green eyes fixed on him.

It did occur to Hojo to be afraid. He’d already had his life threatened by one specimen that day, and he’d only had the creature he’d named Red XIII for a matter of months. Sephiroth had been his for twenty-five years, and behind the green glare of his eyes there was no sign of the conditioning that had led Sephiroth to seek Hojo’s approval as much as he feared him. If Sephiroth raised his sword...

...behind the green glare, another being looked out through Sephiroth’s eyes.

And within Hojo, twisting through his bloodstream, another being looked back.

Jenova greeted Jenova, and Sephiroth - or a projection of him upon a stolen or constructed body, the image of him wavering in the air like reality couldn’t quite bear his presence within it - turned away, tracking blood and Jenova-ichor toward the service elevator. Hojo watched him go, breathless with realization and delight. Was this Reunion?

_Yes._

The Jenova within him curled in something like anticipation. Hojo waited until the grinding sound of the service elevator stopped, and only then turned toward his office, leaving his assistant’s body behind.

Unless he missed his guess, that creature with the Mako eyes would be along shortly, and _his_ share of Jenova wouldn’t be quite awake enough to stay his hand yet. Either way, Hojo had a resignation letter to write.

**Author's Note:**

> (in case it's unclear or for people who aren't interested in the actual game mechanics: in-game, a Peace Ring protects against the Berserk, Fury and Sadness statuses. A cursed Peace Ring would, naturally, do the opposite of that.)


End file.
